


All Around The Compass Point

by helianskies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Betrayal, Did I really lie about Russia tho?, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Guernica Bombing, Historical Hetalia, I lied about Russia, M/M, Major Character Injury, Russia is a good guy?, Spain is a mess, Spain is just so gullible, Spanish Civil War, War, and lonely, but i love them too much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-22 23:30:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15593181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helianskies/pseuds/helianskies
Summary: July 17th, 1936.Civil war is declared in Spain.Antonio cannot trust the people he thought would be there for him until his time was up; not his brother, his best friends, or the man he thought he loved once upon a time.The darkness slowly grows stronger as the war rages on and betrayal springs at him from every point on the compass. But perhaps there is someone who will stay. Perhaps Antonio will find an unlikely but powerful friend in all of this . . .Or maybe he won't.





	1. Those Three Words

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction is based on the real historical events of the Spanish Civil War. Hopefully this will be completed as accurately as possible in order to truly capture the essence of the conflict and how it affected Spain — and Antonio.
> 
> ¡Disfrutad! Enjoy! ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Civil war is coming to Spain, and Antonio isn't quite sure what to do or how to react...

_**July 18th, 1936.** _

The war had been declared yesterday morning. Antonio was still trying to get his head around it all, a headache having stayed with him ever since he received the telegram from Melilla, in pain from the growing conflict of his people and the swelling July heat. He was in his capital city, having travelled there hurriedly overnight from across the Ebro River, and was now waiting for the government to open the doors of the meeting room to him.

      He couldn't focus. He couldn't think. The rich were uniting against the poor, the pious against the illiterate (who were not so out of choice) and they were prepared to tear up his country in order to do so. It was to be the war of the two Spains, two sides led by two Franciscos, both of whom he was very familiar with.

      Francisco Caballero was someone he considered strong, but amiable, a man of the people and the Republic who knew how war worked, and knew how to lead Spain into the modern age through a leftist approach to politics and economics. Antonio could rely on him — confide in him if needs be — as a mature and responsible man. He knew what was what. He knew what was wrong.

      Francisco Franco was different. Antonio had struggled to get along with him, though had found something impressive in the way he had propelled himself so far through the military ranks. It was remarkable. But there was always something off when they crossed paths. He didn't like the firm grip in the handshake, the glint behind the older eyes when surrounded by the topic of political advances and the notion of Spain as 'being restored to its former glory'.

       "You're not who you used to be," he had said many months before at a formal state occasion. "You and the country you represent used to be so great... So powerful..."

      "Everyone has their glory days, General. Everyone has their fall from grace."

      "Perhaps, Antonio. Perhaps."

      A shiver trailed down the brunette's spine and he played with his hands in his anxiety. Franco was the one leading an uprising in Melilla, one of the Moroccan ports that Spain controlled, and was preparing to cross the Gibraltar Strait onto the southern mainland. His nerves — ones that went a little crazy around the General on even an ordinary day — were clearly not incorrect or faulty; Franco was now someone Antonio considered an enemy to both himself and the state, ready to start a war just to have his way.

      And he wasn't alone.

      Franco was reportedly backed by most of the other generals in the Spanish military who rose through nepotism rather than skill (though Franco was surprisingly not one such man). He also had his own African Army, he had reached out to Germany and Italy — fellow far-right nations — to help him cross over to Spain. Heck, he even had the support of the Church who were against the leftist 'heathen' views of Antonio's dear Republic.

      There was no end.

      "Antonio, we're ready for you now," a voice said, coming from a head that had stuck itself through the double doors of the meeting room. It was one of the ministers, a member of the government.

      Antonio rose from his seat in silence and walked over, trying to compose himself in order to face the room of people who had to make a decision with him: how would they fight against the rising rebels in the South?

      The sun shone brightly through the large windows of the long room, across the gloss mahogany table littered with papers and pens and panicked, scrawled writing, right into Antonio's eyes. "Hola, compañeros," he greeted with a nod, moving around the table to avoid being blinded.

      He received an echo of greetings in return (he truly loved this room of men — platonically, of course) and awaited for Azaña to speak. He was the Spanish President, the man of the hour. He had to have a solution, right?

      "We're declaring war."

      Oh. Well that wasn't quite what Antonio was expecting to hear. After all, the war was beginning in the South, off the coast; it was not the fault of the Republic if Spain was catapulted into civil conflict!

      "Señor, they declared war on _us_. Our only option is _retaliation_ ," the personification corrected.

      "Spain has declared war on _itself_ , Antonio. We are _all_ declaring war," the president stated, a disheartened look on his face. It was an inevitability that everyone in the room was aware of, everyone but the country himself. "It is not something we wanted, but we cannot let Spain fall to the rebels without a fight."

      Antonio gained a little frown as he seemed to process this. He didn't want to have to defend Spain — not from its own people. "But the navy? They're forming a barricade across the Strait of Gibraltar," he added in desperation, "Franco's Army won't be able to cross the—"

      "He has applied to Hitler and Mussolini for aircraft to fly them across to Andalucía," Azaña said with a raised hand to silence the brunette. "Hitler seems to have replied with an affirmative, and I don't doubt that Mussolini will follow his shepherd loyally..."

      No. No, no, _no_! This wasn't fair, how dare they get involved in a war that isn't their own! Did They all know the war was happening, too? Were the four points of the compass — North, East, South and West — sat in their fascist den together, plotting out how to drag another country into their dwelling?

      He felt sick. There was no way they were all okay with this, it wasn't possible, they couldn't hate him that much, could they? One of his best friends? His old charge, a person he had grown to care so much (too much) about all that time ago...?

      But no matter what, those three words would not leave Antonio.

        _We're declaring war_.

      They floated around his mind, refusing entry to any other thought or important information he was going to need for several hours until he found himself in his Madrid apartment, still unable to think of anything else. Spain was declaring war on Spain, Azaña had said. Antonio was declaring war on himself. Would he have to fight himself? Was that possible? Heaven forbid!

      He had never faced a war like this, he'd never faced a proper civil war. Spain and its people were to be truly divided by this; it wasn't the Christians versus the Arab moors, this was something so much bigger and more damning for the country he called home.

      What would happen to the losing side? What would happen to him at the end of the war? How long would it last? How many people would die? Would anyone help him, the Republic, the people whose lives were to be thrown out onto the line?

      That was a thought. Foreign aid, foreign nations... How would they all react to this war so soon after they had recovered from the First World War?

      Forget Italy and Germany, the quartet, because they already seemed prepared to support the Nationalists, as the rebels called themselves. _España: una, grande y libre._ That was their motto, for a united Spain, great and free. But what about the Western nations? Azaña had mentioned something about France in their meeting. Would Francis back him up? French elections had not long put a socialist government in power, an ally to the Spanish Republic. Maybe together they would be a big enough threat to get Italy to back down at the very least...

      Would... Would Feliciano and Lovino _really_ uphold supporting the rebels?

      Stupid question, _stupid_ , _stupid_ , _stupid_. Feliciano did not seem particularly crushed by the current regime in Italy, happy enough that he was allied closely to the German brothers (particularly Ludwig), and as for Lovino... Would he care at all if Antonio was at war with himself like this? Wouldn't he laugh, simply revel in it?

      ' _You always did like war_ ,' he could hear the taunting, suave Italian voice circle him. ' _It's all you know, Antonio. You were even born out of one_.'

      Antonio shook his head to loosen his thoughts and remove them all. He had no time to think of what other peoples' interests were, he had bigger fish to fry, more important things to worry about. How on earth would the Republic finance a war, where would they find the men to fight in their army if most of the trained soldiers weren't on their side, where would they find the weaponry to arm these fictional men with, the food, the clothes, the pay?

      He found himself hovering over the telephone, staring at the black metal receiver and wondering if it would ring first (who was he kidding, who in their right mind would call him?) or whether he would have to pick it up whilst it was silent, elusive, yet another thorn in his aging side—

      The number was frantically spun into the phone with the mechanical sound that Antonio would love on any other day, and he waited, with the cold metal to his ear, for someone to answer him.

      And then the voice came:

      "Bonjour, this is the office of Bonnefoy; how can I be of assistance?"

      Antonio inhaled slowly, not mentally prepared to let these words leave his mouth — those four, damaging words — but there was no use fighting it. The truth could not be hidden forever, and certainly not now; not for Antonio, not for Spain.

      "Francis?" He received a hum of acknowledgement to his oddly timid voice. "It's Antonio," he said, "and I... I need your help..."


	2. Meet With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis arrives with a sort of solution for Antonio — but he isn't alone, and soon enough, Antonio will be surrounded by more people than he feels comfortable with.
> 
> But perhaps amongst that darkness, a new star will make an appearance...

_**July 20th, 1936.** _

Antonio couldn't help but pace. His anxiety was creeping up on him, his nerves were working in overdrive, his mind wouldn't stop racing all over the place. It had been three days since the war was declared — two since he had called Francis — and now the Spaniard was awaiting the imminent arrival of his friend.

      He was in the entrance hall of the Madrid parliamentary building. His government were there too, somewhere, lurking about as they began plans for military conscription and appeals to the masses — masses of labourers and workers who had supported them five years prior in the elections, their loyal power base.

      Antonio wished no one had to fight at all, that would've been a nicer alternative...

      The sound of an engine outside spluttered to a halt, giving a little ear-tickling screech as brakes were applied, and Antonio knew it had to be him. It had to be his friend. It had to be the one person he could look to right now for support and advice in such a troublesome time.

      He watched the doors. He waited for them to open, for Francis to walk inside in all his prestige, a warm smile on his face that tucked away how his nation had been physically shredded by global conflict only two decades prior. It was amazing how Francis managed to keep himself together— Though when he thought about it, Antonio knew from experience that it wasn't an easy feat, nor was it overly complicated. Over time, you could learn to fool anyone. Even yourself.

      The door flung open, giving a cracking noise as the old hinges were suddenly tested for strength. At last!

      Blonde hair was tied back in that neat way that meant 'I mean business' (or at least, that was what Antonio liked to think it meant, but who knew for sure?) and a friendly smile accompanied the Frenchman, just as had been hoped. Antonio went to greet him — to say hello, to find comfort in a hug, _anything_ — but then he saw more blonde hair and stayed perfectly still on the spot.

      Francis was not alone.

      "Bonjour, Antonio," Francis greeted as if there was nothing wrong or out of the ordinary in his visit. "It's good to see you, though I wished it was under different circumstances."

      The Spaniard's green eyes shifted away from another verdant pair, silent and uncaring, and he looked to Francis as he tried to put on his own little charade. 'Don't we all?' he responded, flashing a brief smile, before it settled into a more neutral look.

      _Why wasn't Francis alone?_

      "And I suppose I should say hello to you, too, Arthur," he pressed on, glancing back at the intruder. He didn't recall extending the invitation to the Brit, nor did he recall Francis mentioning that he would be bringing Arthur along for the ride. He felt disgruntled. What gave him the right to walk in here with his superiority complex without permission—

      The Brit merely hummed. "Yes, hello to you, too—"

      "—Am I allowed to ask why you're here?" Antonio said. It wasn't a question he could keep inside; he and Arthur were not on as bad terms as they were once upon a time, but that would not stop his tongue. "Only, I wasn't aware I would be having extra company."

      Nothing was said by either blonde. Francis looked back over his shoulder in maintained silence and he and Arthur seemed to share a look that Antonio could not read. It was like a secret message was being passed between them, right in front of him, and he was once more being kept out of the loop. This was growing tiresome! He had asked Francis for help and advice, not to come over just so he could ignore him and bring a plus-one.

      The Frenchman turned back to the brunette. "We both needed to speak to you. In person," he offered as his answer. Antonio waited a moment for an elaboration, with his arms crossed, but one did not come.

      "About what?" he prompted, a frown coming to mar his usually softer features.

      "We're holding a meeting in Paris in five days," Arthur answered with a reluctant willingness and a sigh. "We've invited most of Europe along already by letter."

      Now they were getting somewhere! "A meeting about...?" Antonio queried.

      "Non-Intervention."

* * *

      Antonio knew the Parisian meeting room was already more or less filled with other personifications — ones who had been happily minding their own business in their homelands until Francis and Arthur had dragged them to France for this important gathering. _Non-Intervention_. What a joke...

      He took a deep breath. He couldn't hide in the hallways forever, he had to go in and face them, he had to look at their disapproving faces as they all wondered why they had been called there over him and not someone more important in Europe, someone they actually _cared_ about.

      A hand went to open the door, but then from nowhere, a hand he didn't recognise (and hoped he hadn't suddenly sprouted as a side effect of the war) appeared and kept the door firmly closed. Antonio's gaze moved from the hand to its arm, and then to the owner of both. He almost jumped out of his skin when he realised who it was.

      "Uh, hola," he said as he remembered to breathe. "I thought you would already have been inside with the others, Iv—"

      "No, not yet," the Russian replied with a calm smile on his face, one of friendliness and warmth (could a cold nation even be warm?— oh, wait, Francis' relative in the Americas, uh... What was his name..?). "I thought it would be best to let other people go first. They seem to find me intimidating, still."

      "I suppose you are more than just Russia these days," Antonio remarked quietly and pensively. He was the head of the Soviet Union, the communist hub, a formidable force in the East. A fellow lefty. How could one not be intimidated by that kind of power in this day and age? "I... I take it you know why we're here?"

      "Of course."

      Antonio paused for a second as he thought. "What do you... Make of it all?" he asked the taller male.

      He was aware that Russia had gone through a civil war recently, maybe he had some pointers for how to not lose his sanity. And country. Antonio figured that that would also be a good thing to hold onto, if nothing else.

      "Of what? The war?"

      "All of it... I don't know what I'm doing, if I'm being led to the right thing," Antonio answered, resigned. He didn't know why he was telling this to Ivan of all people but... He was listening where Francis and Arthur had not. "I don't want a war, but I don't seem to have a choice..."

      "Well," Ivan mused as he slowly opened the door, allowing the various conversations inside bubble out into the hallway. "It is hard, but if you know what you want for your country, and you think it is for the best of your people... What choice do you have but to fight for it?"

      "But—"

      "—You cannot always avoid your problems, Tonyo. If you believe in the Republic, then why do anything but support them?" the Russian posed, raising a quizzical (but almost bemused) brow at his comrade. The Spaniard seemed much more bewildered, however, so Ivan softened. "You will do the right thing, I'm sure."

      Antonio carried those words with him as they walked quietly into the European mix, the conversation having ended abruptly, and everything else around him seemed to fizzle entirely out of existence. He took no notice of Francis spotting him and asking if he was alright. He took no notice of the (un)nerved glances from the four compass points of Germany and Italy. He took no notice of the questions flying at him — _how are you? who are you supporting? what are your plans?_

      But as he managed to ignore everyone and took his seat at the table, his eyes met a calmer lavender set and the reassuring smile that complemented them, and he knew exactly what it was he had to do. He had to work with the Republic, he had to stand up against the rebels if it killed him, and give that Franco a good, hard kick up the b—

      England's voice rose above the rest as everyone took their seats, the blonde remaining stood at his own, placing down a small wad of papers onto the fine polished wood: "Alright everyone, we shan't beat around the bush with this too much. Some of you know why we're here, and some of you don't. So allow us to enlighten you."

      His green gaze flickered towards Antonio for a moment, unsympathetic and indifferent, and he turned his attention away from the disdainful look. The Spaniard suddenly wanted to give him a good, hard kick, too...

      "Spain is at the beginnings of a civil war."

      There was only silence around the room. Antonio wasn't sure if it was because other nations weren't sure how to react or what to say, or because they already knew it as concrete fact; there was no backing out of this war and they all knew it. He himself could not deny it — not any more — and he found himself slowly sinking in his seat.

      "Given the current state of the Continent, it has been deemed in our best interests as individual nations to remain out of the Spanish conflict for its duration," the Brit rattled on. (Who put him in charge?). "As such, France and I have formed the Non-Intervention Treaty, which, once signed, means that the associated nations promise to keep out of the war. It is imperative that no munitions, men or money are supplied to either side for the integrity of the agreement."

      "In fact," Francis added, all eyes moving to the seated blonde, "there is to be an extremely limited amount of communication with the Spanish Republic in general... To ensure the containment of the conflict."

      Green met blue. Antonio knew that Francis meant well, and the last thing he wanted was for the war to spread across the Pyrenees to France and then beyond, but was he not allowed some kind of sympathy? He wasn't a child — they couldn't stop him from talking to people and people talking to him like they were his parents! What the heck was this, besides unfair! It was _his nation!_

      "And what does Spain himself think of this... Little arrangement?"

      Attention now shifted to the Russian, everyone wondering what had made him so interested — particularly in what Antonio was thinking. But the Spaniard was somewhat grateful for the opportunity to get his words in sideways. After all, if everyone signed the agreement, who knew when he would next get to talk to someone . . .

      He quietly cleared his throat and did a quick shift in his seat. The spotlight was not something he considered wanted company even at the best of times. Now it was more of a search light, harsh and bright, rather than a mellow beam. "It will work," he said, "but only if every single nations signs it. That's the only way the war will stay in my country."

      "Can you guarantee that it won't spread, though?" asked a usually quiet Swiss, who in all fairness, Antonio would have assumed to be at the top of the list of Non-Interventionists regardless.

      "I do not control the rebels, Vash. I can only control where the loyalists roam, but I'm fairly sure you and your sister will be far from the front line," Antonio replied, keeping in a tired sigh. "There is a rather big country in between us after all... Besides, if you really want this policy to work, then you may want to quickly address the elephant in the room."

      England gave a little 'ahem' and pocketed his hands in his tidy tailored trousers. " _Which is?_ "

      "That foreign intervention has already begun," was the flat reply.

      The remark set people talking amongst themselves around the room, some wondering who may be sticking their fingers into the Spanish pies so early into the war, others knowing perfectly well who it was and sitting idly in their own guilt.

      "Yes, yes, thank you!" the agitated Brit called out over the bustle of the room, trying to bring the noise level back down. "I am fully aware that both France and Germany have made active responses in the war. We are here to amend that, too."

      Francis took that as his cue to start talking, as he had previously been instructed (coerced?) to do by Arthur prior to the start of the meeting. He explained that his government, an ally of that of Spain, was openly prepared to start sending weaponry to the North in order to supply the needy soldiers. One shipment had been sent out before the terms of the treaty had been decided and were already in Spain.

      "But that is where my formal help must end," he concluded, looking at the few papers in front of him and busying himself with reorganising them. It seemed he couldn't bring himself to look at his old friend — his _oldest_ friend — to offer any sort of consolation. _Have some guns, Toni, let me fuel the war_. Yeah, thanks a lot.

      "And the Germans?" England prompted, looking to the two brothers who had sat perfectly composed and quiet for the duration of the meeting. Antonio couldn't even bring himself to look at them. Not even Gilbert. It was funny how war could do things to the relationships you had with other people...

      "Our boss made an agreement with one of the rebel generals to supply temporary aircraft to carry him and his men to the Spanish mainland."

      That was all Ludwig said before a pause came, as if he were finding the right words, or letting everyone absorb that damning information as if it were a tease. Yet there was only monotony in his voice, the same boring, lifeless tone he had possessed for the last three years. Antonio couldn't let himself fall to a fascist regime. He didn't want to become that lifeless person, to have all of his colour drained from him in an instant.

      "However, in light of this Non-Intervention Treaty," the German elaborated, "our government has agreed amongst itself to withdraw that offer."

      Antonio almost choked on air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Toni gonna maketh fren like a good boi— 
> 
> Also damn, this chapter was kinda longer than my standard... Oops... :v  
> (I also published it later than I intended. Much more oopsie—)


	3. Allied Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the meeting, Antonio reflects on what happened in Paris, the people of his country, and his new ally... All before some vital news suddenly arrives for him...

_**July 23rd, 1936.** _

Spain felt colder than ever before on that summer day, and its personification was not feeling too much better. Antonio was back in his Madrid apartment, listening to the outside ruckus as protesters took to the streets in order to rally the troops for the Republican forces. It was to be a war of the common folk — the farmers, the shop-workers, the foundations of his country — against the people who ruled over it all.

      Everyone in the Parisian meeting room had signed the treaty, and England had quickly snatched up the papers and filed them away in a brown leather satchel. ' _I'm taking them to North America, so that they can also sign it,_ ' he had said without having been asked. And that was that.

      Some countries grumbled on their way out of the meeting, complaining about being dragged from the sanctity of their home for _that_ , or contemplating aloud a stay in Paris for the weekend, too, so that they at least did _something_ fun whilst they were there. All it did was pull Antonio further down into the darker pits of his own mind; they didn't even care what happened to his country, so long as their own was kept out of harm's way.

      He wasn't sure he'd ever left a conference so quickly in his life — and that was saying something! But Antonio had practically raced out of the room as soon as the final signature ( _Afonso J. Carriedo: Portugal_ ) had been inked onto the page. A sickness had washed over him. The room had shrunk fifty times in size. Oxygen had been replaced by carbon monoxide.

      Antonio recalled how he had rushed himself all the way outside, in fact, straight to the back of the building and out into the garden, where he subsequently threw up in some of the topiary ( _sorry, Francis_ ). Everything had been churning inside of him for the past two hours — emotions and thoughts of every kind — to the point where it had to come out one way or another.

      He hadn't felt any more settled afterwards, however. Not even when a hand came down onto his back out of nowhere and rubbed calming circles through the suit. (He had refused to wear the military uniform to the meeting; he looked in the mirror and all he saw was a monster he was scared of becoming). It was whole other feeling that would never leave him...

* * *

      The usually soothing motion had only made him feel a thousand times worse, swirling yet more nausea inside him. But he hadn't even the energy to move away from or fight the hand that rubbed amicably at his back.

      "It is natural to feel sick in this sort of circumstance, you know."

      "It doesn't _feel_ natural," Antonio said with a little huff as he tried to stand up straight, pushing off his bent knees and away from the spherical bushes of the French garden. "None of this is natural — not the war, the coming murder, nor how anyone is reacting to it..."

      "Why do you say this?" Ivan questioned, a childlike curiosity in his eyes as he continued to soothe the other. Was he being the naive one, or was Antonio?

      " _Because_ ," the brunette mumbled out, "it's just ink on paper, Ivan. It doesn't mean anything to some of the people in there. I mean, do you —" He gave a torn laugh. "— Do you really think that _Hitler_ is going to go back on his word to Franco so easily?"

      The hand on his back stopped its circular motion and lay still for a moment. Ivan was thinking, it was visible on his face: the way he didn't move a muscle as he stared at the ground blankly as though absorbing abundant information from the soil. Then he muttered something to himself in Russian and closed his eyes, as if to hide from the world (or just from Spain), before his hand smoothly ran up to Antonio's shoulder, where it rest with comfort.

      He pried open his eyes. "If either Germany or Italy — whether the country, its leaders or its person — decide to get involved in Spain," he said with a lower tone, subtly sinister and more stern than the Spaniard cared to notice, "then I, too, will intervene."

      Green eyes widened slowly at the declaration and its prospects. "You can't," Antonio told him. God, he wanted that help more than anything, but he knew couldn't accept or else the treaty meant _zilch!_ "If you get involved, where will it stop? There'll be another world war! Alfred and Arthur will—!"

      "I care little for what these silly little nations say, Tonyo. They can pick a fight with me if they so choose," the Russian said defiantly, smiling kindly. "But if the Germans or Italians want to pick a fight with _you_ , then I will be there to give you my support."

      Antonio couldn't believe what his ears were hearing. Ivan was willing to risk scrutiny and war in order to stop the rebels from succeeding? He was willing to help Antonio win the civil war ( _what was even civil about it?_ ) without batting an eyelid? He was willing to support him against the other European powers? But why?

      "You..." The thought of someone wanting to help him was so moving and devastating all at once, words wouldn't leave Antonio's mouth with ease. His stomach did more flips. "Would you... Really do that?"

      "Of course," Ivan grinned down at him with the warmth that Antonio should rightfully possess. "Nothing would please me more, comrade!"

* * *

      He slumped backwards onto his bed, ignoring the creak it gave under the sudden weight, and bringing himself back into reality. The memory of him having a momentary breakdown and somehow finding a friendly comfort in Ivan's arms after they made their little agreement was not one Antonio held onto all that dearly. It wasn't that he hadn't appreciated the support. It wasn't that he didn't thank Ivan for being there to stop him collapsing to the floor. It wasn't even that he felt that he would come to owe Ivan his life and so much more, one day.

       It was that it wasn't Francis or Gilbert there instead of Ivan.

      Francis had found Antonio later that day, after the meeting had ended, soon before he was due to depart back for Spain. He seemed in a hurry, slightly out of breath from both fatigue and what looked like desperation on his face. For a moment, Antonio thought that he had changed his mind and had found some loophole so that he could continue to support the Republicans without anyone knowing.

      But Antonio had been wrong many, many times before. "And many more times to come," he mumbled quietly, staring up at the ceiling of his room.

      Francis had offered the current Spanish government sanctuary in Paris should they need to move into a exile — a very likely thing — as a precaution. Antonio's boss had leapt at the idea when he had been informed yesterday. Azaña had only _then_ decided to tell Antonio that he was going to be moving offices with the rest of the ministers out of Madrid and to a more safe location, and that Paris was actually the perfect place!

      In all honesty, Antonio was beginning to feel like his pocket of trustworthy people had a growing hole in it...

      The shouts in the streets got somewhat louder and broke through his thoughts. _No pasarán_ , they called out: they shall not pass. It was quickly becoming the driving motto of the Republican forces, a promise that they would defend the heart of their country from the insurgents and rebels until they breathed their last breath. It was wonderful, but terrifyingly so.

      Antonio didn't want anyone to die in this war. He wished to wrap all of the good citizens in protective papers and blankets and tuck them away safely. But the bad ones could burn, for all he cared, the bad ones like Franco.

      He lifted himself from his bed and decided to head outside to see his people. It was a sudden calling, and one he couldn't ignore, like a tug he couldn't fight — _wouldn't_ fight. And so Antonio found himself walking out to the balcony that attached onto his bedroom, leaning on the spiralled metal rails as he peered down at the procession below.

      A sea of blue, red and black filled the street as his people marched on towards the government building. They were called the bluebirds to Antonio, the sweet, gentle creatures who could sing and sing and sing ( _¡No pasarán!_ ) to no end, and fly up high where the wind could carry them farther than the eye could see.

      It was just a shame that the rebels were then hawks, who would eventually find the bluebirds and hunt them down, ripping into them with their sharp talons and hooked beaks. Greed. 

      A face in the crowd saw Antonio watching and waved up at him, halting in the midst of the colourful river. "Hey, compañero," he called up through his broom-like moustache (or was he just seeing Stalins everywhere, now?), "come on and join us! We must win the war for nuestra España!"

      The country felt a humbled warmth inside of himself, and he smiled back down over the edge of the rails. "I'm already with you!" he said.

      "It does not seem so," came the light-hearted reply. "You are up there, but we are all down here! Come, where is your spirit, niño?"

Antonio pulled from his pocket a red bandana — a symbol of the Republicans — and waved it out over the street for all to see, like some fairytale damsel. "I may not march yet, but I will always be with you, señor!" he vowed. "When the rebels show up, I will be there to greet them personally!"

      It was not an empty promise, but of course, Antonio knew that the citizen below him would not take the declaration quite so literally.

      "¡Viva España!" the man called back, nevertheless, before he crashed back into the raging waters and carried on with the others in their procession.

      "Que vivo yo," Antonio said quietly to himself with a small smile.

      He tucked the cloth away into his pocket and dragged himself back into the calm of his apartment, a humbled smile still on his face. Patriotism was a wonderful thing for a personification; it could make one feel invincible with enough power and sincerity, and could surely provide enough belief and confidence to increase any success rate across the board.

      It was how wars were won, and was how wars were lost.

      But yes. Yes, his golden heart was set on it: when the Nationalists decided to step foot on Spanish soil with the intent of raising Hell, then Antonio would meet them at the gates and show them all exactly how great and powerful Spain could be without their obligation!  _Una, grande y libre_. Bring it on!

      The sound of metal clattering soared towards Antonio, and his attention darted in the direction of the front door. That was his letterbox, if he was thinking correctly. It was not used so often — especially not at this time in the afternoon — but at a time like this, it seemed even more important than normal. With a momentary hesitance in his step, the brunette moved himself as fast as he could to retrieve whatever had come through the post at such an irregular hour.

      His fingers found a small envelope which poorly protected a yellowed slip of card. A telegram. Antonio's heart skipped a beat and he ripped away the paper layer to uncover the message that had been sent to him. The telegram was stamped with the same day's date and an ungodly hour of the morning. It had been sent only eight hours before.

      A lot can happen in eight hours, he told himself.

      Antonio couldn't wait any longer, not now that he'd said such an ominous thing to himself when he needn't worry so much, right? It wasn't as if his country was ready to go to war with itself over some silly ideology nonsense and economics, right? He was... Reading those unmistakably clear, printed words wrong... Right..?

      They made Antonio's lungs itch fiercely. They made him want to scream, to tear out his own hair, to cry. He couldn't believe the words that had been sent to him, and he wasted no time in grabbing his keys and ploughing out of the apartment with the telegram in his hands. The government had to know. They had to be made aware of the damning words that wouldn't stop repeating in his mind:

      ' _Rebels landed in South._

_Prepare troops._

_War has come to Spain._ '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the rebels have landed, eh? I wonder how they managed that... :'v


End file.
